


No Rest For The Wicked, No Peace For The Saints

by KitschyKit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dreams and Nightmares, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild References to Historical Violence, Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), the INTIMACY of sleeping next to someone you trust, unbeta'd I apologize in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/pseuds/KitschyKit
Summary: Five times Aziraphale and Crowley encounter nightmares throughout history, walking the tightrope between friend and foe; and one time where they are able to help each other through it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Adversarial Anniversary Celebration





	No Rest For The Wicked, No Peace For The Saints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MickyRC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickyRC/gifts).



> For MickyRC as part of the Adversarial Anniversary Celebration! Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> The "1" of the 5+1 will be the next chapter and will be Very Soft.

** In the Beginning **

It started with a question. 

“Have you ever wanted to try it?” 

Aziraphale leaned closer to hear, making an inquisitive sound to prompt Crawly to explain. They were sharing a flat cliff edge, overlooking the distant settlement of the first humans. This was their routine as humanity took its first frantic steps into the world Eden hadn’t prepared them for. 

Aziraphale and Crawly would talk, turning examples of human behavior over and over in the desert sunlight, peering into their psyche with a wonder. They had stood apart at first, but then over time came to sit, to turn towards the other. 

Now they had fallen silent as the sun had set, looking into the distance together, and Crawley leaned towards him, sharing a question without even looking at him, and Aziraphale had responded in kind, leaning as flower towards the sun.

Crowley’s chuffed little exhale filled the air between them, and Aziraphale saw the glint of gold out of the corner of his eye.

“Sleeping,” Crowley clarified, “Have you ever wanted to try it?” 

Aziraphale hadn’t had the time to form an opinion of it before, so he responded with what he’d been told instead. “It’s one of the body's natural rhythms, but it isn’t necessary for us to function.” 

Crawly hummed. “Our bodies want to though, it’s instinctual. Practically every living creature does it in some form or another.” 

“Well… there _are_ plenty of other functions within the human body that we ignore.” 

Crawly waved his hand with a scoff that just told Aziraphale that had won that particular argument. 

“But the thing is…” Crowley murmured, and it felt like he was sharing a secret. “There are these things called dreams.”

“Our side is looking into how they might be used as a form of communication.” Aziraphale realized too late that he shouldn’t be mentioning what _his side_ was planning at all, much less in front of the opposition. 

Crawly made a soft sound, acknowledging the slip-up. “I don’t really know if that’s its purpose though, might be messy to make prophecy out of nonsense. Hearing about it from the humans though just makes it sound kind of fun.” 

“It does sound rather nice, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale said, “are you thinking of sleeping?” 

“Might be,” Crawly drawled, which really meant _yes._

“I’ve heard children and adults sometimes retell their dreams to each other the next day,” Aziraphale said suddenly, turning more fully to look at him. “Do you think you could share yours? If you find out?”

“Sure,” Crowley said, sounding startled and a bit pleased. “Could be interesting.” 

Crowley’s imagination was vivid and bright, and Aziraphale found that he loved a good story. 

They made a game out of it. They would sit on their cliff, or shaded under dabbled olive branches, or by the riverbank, reeds up to their waist, and Aziraphale would ask about his dreams. They would embellish them, debate the absurd moral quandaries that arose from dreams, and still, Crowley would claim them as nothing more than nonsense used to entertain humans while they slept, and Aziraphale thought it would be more poetic to use them for symbolism. 

And then one day Crowley was late.

The demon still arrived, but the sun was high in the sky, and Aziraphale had taken shelter in the mouth of a small cave. He couldn’t help but brighten when Crowley came into view, despite trying to find the language to convey the delicate balance of polite and relieved and utterly vexed— but Crawley’s smile held a tension that had Aziraphale’s complicated complaints falling apart on his tongue. 

Crawly was _tired_. 

Aziraphale at that moment dared to reach out, stepping out to meet him and usher him into the shelter away from the sun. “Are you alright?” 

Crawly shifted away from his hands and shrugged him off. “Yes, fine, didn’t sleep well. Anything happen this morning?”

“Nothing of interest,” Aziraphale said, because he realized quite suddenly that he hadn’t bothered to watch over the humans without Crawley. “Just you being late.” 

Crawly scowled at him. “Don’t be so high and nightly when nothing new happened.” 

Aziraphale has never seen Crawly like this, the demon had always tried to be in a bright mood, even when complaining, but this was a new and sullen side to him. “What did you dream about?” 

Crawly jumped as if stung, and Aziraphale’s concern jumped with it. 

“Nothing you want to hear about,” Crawly said firmly. “It was just about something that happened a while ago.” 

Aziraphale gave him a long look, trying to navigate the unspoken implications. “A… memory? About Heaven?” 

Crawly pressed his back to the wall of the cave, his hiss low and defensive. “No, leave it alone.”

“Crawly,” Aziraphale whispered, seeing distress and _aching_ with the urge to heal it. “Whatever this is, can I help?” 

“The Fall,” Crawly admitted after a moment, hushed and distant. “I try not to remember it, but the dream— it’s _painful_. I didn’t know they’d be painful.” 

Crowley’s voice gained a sudden and terrible sharpness as he corrected himself. “I _should’ve_ known.” 

“You re-lived it,” Aziraphale whispered with mounting horror. “Oh I’m— I shouldn’t have—“ 

Crawly’s eyes met his for a moment before falling away, and Crawly was outside before Aziraphale could find the right words to apologize. “I’ll see you tomorrow then? Okay? Good? Great.” 

“Crawly,” Aziraphale called out, paralyzed with a complex emotion as he watched the demon leave. The emotion would not be conveyed in English into a single word until the 17th century, but the Angel known as Aziraphale had felt it keenly for quite some time.

_Lonely._

** The Ark **

The moment the Ark rose off the ground and started to float, Aziraphale was left alone on his biggest assignment yet. 

A constant cycle of chores met him every day, ranging from the condition of the animals to the health of Noah’s family, and Aziraphale kept moving. He didn’t slow down, or rest, and occupied himself with work as the storm raged outside. If he stopped he would think, and if he stopped to think at all about the reason he was on the Ark in the first place— 

Best not get into that. 

Aziraphale propped himself on some barrels after a particularly harsh day and prayed with shaking hands as he tried to recover some of his power, his reserves drained dry. 

But the moment his eyes slipped closed, Aziraphale was in a welcoming sea, something velvet black and warm. 

He drifted comfortably, but then the sea became restless, waves crashing and the growing to horrifying heights, the wind whistling higher and louder into a salty wail, the sound of thousands of anguished souls. 

Aziraphale shivered, shifting restlessly into the hard wood of the bunk, the very heartbeat of the ship melded to his palm. He felt it pulsing, teeming with life, the one burst of grace in a grey tempest. 

The gates of Heaven were surrounded by ocean. _This_ was divine absolution, and Aziraphale was powerless to stop it, _insignificant_ in the wake of it. 

Water rushed up to meet him— 

Aziraphale gasped in the dark, body locked and trembling. A hand on his shoulder made him jump, a scream caught in his throat. 

“It’s alright,” Crawly crouched awkwardly next to him, a comforting silhouette in the dim underbelly of the ark. “You’re okay.” 

“You— you can’t _be_ here,” Aziraphale’s voice wavered, shivering in Crawly’s bunk. “This entire ark is _blessed.”_

“Made a few additions,” Crawly said vaguely, and the hand on his shoulder squeezed. “And I took care of your chores. No break in routine to attract questions.” 

“Where— where are we?” Aziraphale asked quietly as he leaned back into the wall, trying to get his bearings in a windowless room. Crawly slowly slipped his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder, a memorizing sway to his sharp stare. 

“My hiding place,” Crawly whispered. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a distinct lack of real estate in the area.” 

“Invest in some land did you?” Aziraphale’s chuckle turned into a sob, his first and only opportunity to mourn. “Well so did I.”

Crawly was studying him, and stared at him through tangled hair and bruised eyes, sharing the weight of this terrible event. 

The burn of adrenaline and tears left acid in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale swallowed heavily. “How long have I been…?”

“Five days.” 

Aziraphale nodded once. “And what are you looking for in return?” 

Crawly looked offended, amused, and nervous all at once, his reflexive grin pinched at the corners. “What a... _harsh_ assumption you make there, angel.” 

“Crawly,” Aziraphale sighed. “Tell me why you did this.” 

Crawly lurched to his feet, skittish, acting like _he_ was the one being extorted. “Come on then.” 

Aziraphale could not refuse. 

Crowley slipped away, hunched due to the low ceilings, and Aziraphale followed as he led them over and around support beams, the air stale with rot and sea-salt ice, waves rolling under their feet. Crates were stacked high against the far wall, designating the end of the ship, and Crowley climbed up to perch on the stacks, pushing two of them apart to peek to the far side. 

Crawly met his eye and tilted his head, bringing one finger up to his mouth to signal silence, and Aziraphale dared to close the distance, slotting himself into Crowley’s space. 

“You’re right that I didn’t do this as a favor,” Crowley whispered as they took in the rise and fall breaths of two dozen sleeping children. “I did it for insurance. You were gonna find us eventually. Needed to make sure I had something against you.” 

“One’s quite a larger favor to trade than the other,” Aziraphale murmured back. Crawly did not _have_ to share this with him, it might have been safer not to, but he _did_ , just for Aziraphale to have some crumb of comfort, a new purpose _._

“You’re entrusting me with their _lives,_ Crowley.” 

“So?” Crawley hissed, a soft hitch of breath against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Didn’t bet wrong, did I?” 

The next moment he was a snake, fitting himself through the small window to thread through the huddles of children. He coiled in the center, the guardian with flame-yellow eyes. 

Aziraphale shivered under that gaze, leftover adrenaline from his nightmare having charred his veins in brine-crusted lichtenberg patterns. 

Aziraphale gave his first blessing in five days and a new,blanket-soft affection was etched into his grace as he laid it gently over the room. _May you dream of whatever you like best._

Indebted to a demon, Aziraphale went back to his chores. 

And he kept a secret. 

** Rome **

Aziraphale did not mean to find him since it was only a few years since they had last met, but the concern— the issue was— well— Aziraphale was _worried_. 

Aziraphale had sensed mild occult distress in this part of the world every night for more than a month, and it was only with his latest report submitted that he was able to start his journey to Rome. 

He knew that was also where Crowley was headed, as the distance between the recurring nightmares plotted a rough map, and the prominence of the city likely made it the scene of Crowley’s next assignment. This guesswork made it easier for Aziraphale to get there first; to set up a place and a name and a neighborhood. 

Crowley had warned him, eight years ago, that Hell would not look favorably upon the martyr of another prophet, and that once he went to Hell he might not be back for a long time. 

The nightmares were an encouraging sign that he didn’t _lose_ Crowley, but they were also a sign that there were parts of Crowley that still might’ve been _lost_ to Hell’s wrath. 

Aziraphale didn’t sleep very often. He preferred to avoid it altogether, refusing to address the issues that came with dreaming. Crowley addressed it in his own stubborn _human_ way of insisting that he was fine, and he would repeat endless cycles of night and day until the problem fixed itself and the dreams went away on their own. The fact that the nightmares _weren’t_ going away kept Aziraphale staring into the dark city streets, feeling Crowley’s pain as if it was his own, unable to help as the distance between them shrunk. 

Crowley arrived in Rome, and Aziraphale sought him out immediately, his plan rapidly crumbling to ash as Crowley snarled and Aziraphale stuttered and they bumbled their way through small talk together. 

However— Crowley still said _yes_ , and Aziraphale plied him with oysters and wine and a tour of the city, leading him home as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. 

Crowley was strolling now, limbs loose and heavy, a snake’s sway in every step, but he still agreed to more wine, curious eyes eager to see where an angel had put shallow roots. 

It was a humble room, designed that way so that Aziraphale could usher Crowley to the raised bed. Crowley took it cautiously, a protest dying on his lips as Aziraphale summoned a stool to sit next to him, more wine appearing on a side table. 

Even as he poured, Aziraphale eased into it with well-intentioned concern. “My dear, pardon me for saying this, but I don’t think traveling agrees with you.” 

“Me and the road get along just fine if it involves a cart,” replied Crowley, tetchy when reminded of his record involving saddles and the experience of being flung from them. 

“Yes, but you look rather exhausted, you should get some sleep.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “Kicking me out already angel?” 

“On the contrary, I’m inviting you to stay,” Aziraphale said smoothly, feeling rather pleased as a blush crawled up Crowley’s neck. 

Crowley wrestled with that for a moment, mouth parting, and Aziraphale pushed a little further, anticipating the well-worn excuses. “It’s no trouble at all really, just until you recover your strength.” 

Crowley’s smile was shy, as if he was remembering what it was like to bare his teeth without fear.

“That was an excellent temptation,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t be sporting to ruin your fun now.” 

“Easier just to give in,” Aziraphale teased with a little wiggle, a bit heavy-handed now that he was caught. 

“It’s really not,” Crowley said, but he went down willingly and sunk into Aziraphale’s bed with a sigh. “But I’ll always say yes to you.” 

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, and enjoyed a quiet night for the first time in two months, memorizing the rise and fall of Crowley's chest in the dark. He kept one hand over Crowley’s and snuffed out night terrors with the sweep of his thumb and the practiced ease of a being that had been doing it to himself for centuries. 

** 1945 **

They were in the basement of the bookshop when they felt it. The makeshift shelter itself didn’t change, but strings on their metaphysical global spiderweb were tugged, and the pulsing violence in the aura of the earth swelled to a cosmic fever pitch— and then slowly, so slowly, the knot began to unravel. 

Crowley and Aziraphale sat in silence for a long time, perhaps days, or a week, as they felt yet another era of history limp into the grave, it’s embellished mausoleum mercifully shut. Human fear was replaced with human relief. Human mourning. 

Aziraphale felt a creeping dullness come to his senses, a detachment from his limbs in a way that should be concerning, but he was so _tired_ — 

He jerked awake, a pulse of fear pushing back the fog. The earth swirled under his feet even as he sat perfectly still. 

“It’s over angel,” Crowley croaked, and Aziraphale blinked aching eyes in his direction. “You can rest now.” 

“I can’t,” Aziraphale trembled. “More will come. More suffering. It will never stop Crowley, and I’m- I’m the _only one here.”_

“Virtue is ever vigilant I know,” Crowley said, suddenly at his elbow, at _bended knee_ for him. “But virtue’s gotta put his head down once in a while.” 

“Crowley,” he whispered, distant and wet as Crowley’s hand cradled his cheek, “I see it when I close my eyes. I feel it under my skin. I was a soldier Crowley, it was _my sword_ and I feel it— whenever War rides. I _feel_ it.” 

“Rest,” Crowley ordered. He begged in every way except tone, keeping his voice quiet and firm. “Let me keep watch for you. Let me take care of you.” 

“What can I do for you, Crowley?” He asked, a wretched fool that he was. “What can I give you in return?” 

Crowley lifted himself to loom over Aziraphale, a soft press of air at the crown of his head a poor substitute for the kiss Aziraphale would’ve wept to receive. 

“Nothing yet,” he whispered to Aziraphale, suspended in their exhausted tableau. From anyone else to anyone else, it would’ve been a debt. 

Aziraphale was instead pushed back into the chair, a blanket settling over his form. 

Crowley's smile was fragile, but his voice had already shattered, broken with exhaustion. “May you dream of whatever you’d like best.” 

Aziraphale loved him. He could not open his mouth to tell him, but he felt the blessing as it slid pleasantly over Aziraphale’s skin, less of a temptation and more of the gentle encouragement of an old friend that knew best. 

Aziraphale did not dream of anything at all. 

**Dowling Estate, 2013**

A Saturday night at the Dowling’s meant trouble, as the Nanny and the Gardener had Sunday’s off. Saturday night meant gossiping in the Gardener's cottage, wine flowing freely as they bickered and snickered to themselves over nothing and everything.

It was a humid night in July, suffocating in its heat, and the expansive garden was teeming with life, the sounds of crickets and frogs on all sides. 

Inside though, an angel and a demon suddenly bolted upright, sobering up as pulse of distress came from the house. 

“Would you like me to come with you this time?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley smoothed down her clothes and balanced on one long leg to try and get her shoe back on. 

“Could you find those chocolate biscuits he likes?” Crowley asked and they shared a brief, fond smile. 

They split up, moving in efficient tandem, and Aziraphale found the tin because _of course_ a kitchen as well-stocked as the Dowling's would have them. 

The door to Warlock’s room was ajar, the lights still off. They had gone through similar routines since he had started getting nightmares, depending on the severity, but when Aziraphale looked over, he found that the boy was already asleep again, rumbled sheets tucked neatly back around him. 

“He usually has such a hard time going back to bed,” Crowley murmured as Aziraphale came to stand next to her. “But he was out like a light by the time I got here.” 

“That’s good then dear,” Aziraphale said, taking her elbow. “He’s following your advice about how to handle them.” 

They blessed Warlock’s dreams in turn, and only then did Crowley allow herself to be led to the hallway. They didn’t pull away from each other when they strolled down it, leaning into the touch and finding privacy in the shadows. 

“He’s not going to need us anymore,” Crowley said softly. “He’s getting older.” 

“We still have time,” Aziraphale responded, equally soft. “But we talk of the end so often now, could we savor the present instead?” 

“You think we’ll fail,” Crowley breathed, and it was not a question. 

“No my dear, I think we’ll make a _difference_ ,” Aziraphale replied, trying not to be misunderstood. “Hopefully in the way we want to.” 

“I’d understand,” Crowley said quietly as they slipped out of the servant’s door back into the garden. “If you want to abandon this ship at some point.” 

Aziraphale gave her a disbelieving look. “After all your song and dance to get me on board?” 

“You’re betting on me,” Crowley said simply. “With the Antichrist. With our lives. With our home. I know it makes you uneasy.” 

“I don’t bet,” Aziraphale‘s tone dropped, suddenly serious. “I cannot afford to bet on things like you do, I have to have faith in them.” 

Crowley’s eyes were exposed, glowing in the dark, the English ivy crawling up the house creating a stunning backdrop. The humidity clung to his shirt, and despite the slumbering humans inside, the garden was _alive_ with the sounds of the animals as clouds rolled overhead, a faint merciful breeze through the trees, and Aziraphale wanted to keep Crowley here, in this moment, forever. 

“I have faith in you,” he said quietly, uncaring for once that the words were out there, damning evidence of their association.

Crowley shook her head, rejecting the notion that such a thing could even happen and then a more frantic fevered shake as the words hit her, eyes wide. 

“Angel,” she whispered. “Don’t.” 

Aziraphale nodded once, acknowledging the warning for what it was. “Are you going to retire for the night?” 

“You’re not?”

“You’ll sleep better in the cottage.” Aziraphale stepped forward to meet her, reaching out his hand. “Trust me.” 

“The staff will talk,” Crowley murmured as she took his hand, but what she really meant was _yes, I will._

“Let them.”

They fell asleep side by side, and while the distance between them was carefully constructed, it had never been smaller. 


End file.
